


Mountains Crumble, Kingdoms Fall

by lil_1337



Category: Gundam Wing, Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-22
Updated: 2008-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_1337/pseuds/lil_1337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday fic for <a href="http://louiex.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://louiex.livejournal.com/"><b>louiex</b></a> who requested a Gundam Wing/Torchwood crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mountains Crumble, Kingdoms Fall

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic is set in Quatre's time so all of the Torchwood Three team is long dead with the exception of Jack. The stated character death mentioned in warnings falls into this category.

Quatre crouched in the darkness listening to the seemingly unending sound of battle overhead. The booming roar of the artillery shells rattled the walls of the basement he had taken shelter in until he was certain his body, as well as the decimated building, would be shaken to bits. He had no idea how long he'd been there; it could have been minutes or days. Since the death of his father and loss of Trowa, time had lost all meaning. It bunched then stretched out too thin like thread woven by someone new to a spindle.

Feeling as if one second more without something to ease the darkness would cause his soul to shatter irreparably, Quatre pulled his penlight from his trousers and turned it on. A small mist of light sprang from the end causing the inky black to make a momentary retreat into the corners and shadows where it waited for a chance to return. Immediately, Quatre felt his spirits rise slightly in response. Though the light gave off no heat he felt a little warmer despite the cement floor and walls that infused cold into him everywhere his body made contact.

What little he could see of the room around him gave the appearance of being an old storage area. To his left, at the very edge of the light, was what looked like the end of a free standing set of floor to ceiling shelves. Moving cautiously in a low crouch, Quatre edged towards them and away from the crumbling stone steps that had been his entrance into this place of relative safety. Working on autopilot he scanned the area closest to him for food, ammunition and weapons, the holy trinity for a terrorist on the run.

Throwing caution to the wind Quatre brightened the light, blinking for a moment to clear the spots that swirled in front of his eyes. The shelves in front of him were barren except for dust and the occasional chunk of rock or cement. Following them to the corner of the room he moved to stand in front of the connecting wall. This set appeared empty too, except for an old cardboard box stored in the upper most corner. His first impulse was to ignore it, as it was unlikely to contain anything he might need, but something in it called to him, reaching for the sentimental young man trapped behind the wall of despair and self-loathing.

Penlight in his mouth so he could see, Quatre stepped onto the second shelf and pulled himself up. With the tips of his fingers he was able to inch the box towards himself, easing it over the end of the shelf until it wobbled, unbalanced, before crashing to the floor. The sound reverberated around the enclosed room and Quatre leaped back from the shelving, gun drawn and ready as he landed in a low crouch. He scanned the room, searching for movement in velvet wells of shadow.

Slowly he relaxed, acknowledging as each individual muscle accepted the order to stand down until he was in a state of calm vigilance. Pushing the box with toe of his boot he sent it sliding across the floor until it came to rest against the far wall. Quickly he checked out the last set of shelves and found them as barren as the first. Penlight once again in hand, Quatre made his way across the room to where his simple prize lay. He slid down the wall to sit next it, but now that it was here instead of on the shelf the urge to open it up and see what was inside faded around the edges allowing the ambivalence to once again override his survival instincts.

Letting his hand drop onto the box, Quatre slid it across the dust covered cardboard. The flaps gave easily, bending and slipping apart with only one tug. Inside was a rectangular container made of frosted plastic; it reflected the light shone on it, refusing to reveal even a hint of its contents. He reached in and lifted it out after making a cursory check for hidden triggers or explosives. The container itself was unremarkable; it had very little weight and made almost no sound when he shook it. Popping open the vacuum seal released the smell of musty paper associated with attics and treasures that had been long since forgotten.

The lid stuck for a moment, a victim of years spent unopened on the shelf, then came away in Quatre's hand. He set it carefully on the floor before reaching in and pulling out a large, bulging manila envelope. The front bore no addresses or postmarks and had clearly been used for storage instead of shipping. He undid the flap and turned it upside down to dump the contents onto the floor in front of him. Pictures spilled out in a fan shape, bringing warmth and color to the dismal room.

Taking the top one off the stack Quatre studied the two men smiling out at him before turning it over. 'Jack and Ianto, Christmas 2008' was written on it in firm, even script. He flipped the picture again, this time noting the details of how the men stood within each other's space, the sprig of mistletoe over their heads, and the way that only one of the older man's hands could be seen. For a brief second he wondered what it would be like to pose that way with someone. Shaking his head he dismissed the thought as an undeserved flight of fancy.

With a sigh he set it aside and reached for another. This one showed a man and a woman in front of what appeared to be a fountain. He wore a tuxedo and she was dressed in a long black gown that set off her hair and skin to perfection. The script on the back of this one was bigger and sloppier, but still readable; 'Tosh and Owen' was all it said, giving no hint of when or why it was taken. Quatre set it near the first; separating them from the ones he had yet to view.

Slowly he worked through the pile, putting names to faces as Gwen, Rhys, and Martha made an appearance. Through the pictures he watched them take shape each as his or her own person. Tosh was camera shy, but had a beautiful smile. Owen always looked sour and unhappy unless Tosh was there by his side, softening the glare he directed at whoever was behind the lens. Gwen was always smiling while Rhys couldn't take a picture without clowning, not even on his wedding day. Martha always looked amused by some private joke, but with a world weary intensity that shone in her eyes. Jack loved the camera and it loved him in turn. Even though the pictures covered a span of ten years he never seemed to get any older. There were only a handful with Ianto in them and Quatre surmised from this that the pictures must have belonged to him.

The last two made Quatre's breath hitch. They showed Jack and Ianto in bed together. Judging from the angle of the shots, both were taken by one of them holding the camera at arm's length and snapping a picture. They were taken in quick succession, capturing forever a single moment of intimacy. The comfort between the two men was evident in the way their bodies were entangled as well as the laughter Quatre could almost hear echoing in his ears. Smiling in spite of himself he gathered up the pictures, reverently placing the last two on top before returning them to the envelope they had been in.

Setting it aside he reached into the container and removed a letter that had been hidden underneath the larger envelope. It was post marked 'Cardiff' which Quatre dredged up as being part of Wales before the alliance took over and merged all of Europe together. Moving carefully to keep from doing any damage to the brittle paper he opened it up and pulled out the single sheet of paper enclosed within. Without hesitation he unfolded it and began to read.

/Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jones,

It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of your son, Ianto. He was killed during the recent raid on Cardiff that cost the lives of so many brave men and women. You can be proud of your son, as we at Torchwood are. Even though he was seriously injured he held his position and kept fighting until reinforcements arrived. He saved Cardiff and in doing so saved us all.

As I'm sure you know, Ianto and I were lovers and even though our time together was short I hope that he was happy. He was a good man, compassionate, witty, and made the best damn cup of coffee I've ever had. His strength held the team together through more messes than I can count. I have no idea how we will go on from here without him, but will we follow his example and find a way. I can think of no greater honor then to keep fighting his fight in his name.

My deepest sympathies,  
Captain Jack Harkness/

Letting the letter fall to his lap, Quatre bit his lip as something inside him broke. Wrapping his arms around his knees he buried his face in them. Sobbing soundlessly he rocked back and forth as the loss and self-loathing he had kept locked up since he had recovered his senses washed over him with the force of a tsunami. Trowa was gone, lost in space and Quatre would never see him again. Never hear his voice or listen to him play the flute. Never see him covered in grease as he worked on Heavyarms. The pain was a physical ache in his chest robbing him of air and strangling his will to keep going. The guilt and longing gnawed at his ravaged soul creating new holes and expanding the ones already there.

The light from Quatre's penlight flickered then faded, leaving him in darkness that he barely acknowledged. Once again time lost all meaning as Quatre sat in the cold blackness berating himself. It was the quiet that finally drew him back out to the reality that existed beyond his pain. The battle had either finished or moved beyond his range. Even straining to listen all he could hear was the sound of his own harsh breathing. Scrubbing his face with his hands he shifted, causing stiff muscles to scream in protest of their mistreatment. Quatre braced himself on the cement and levered up into a crouch then, feeling totally bereft of desire to move, he let gravity pull him back down. What was the point? The war would never end and even if it did Trowa… He swallowed and closed his eyes.

/ I can think of no greater honor then to keep fighting his fight in his name./

The voice was soft, infused with pain and pride that allowed just a glimmer of its normally good humored tone. Raising his chin, Quatre squared his shoulders. He could do nothing less for Trowa. True, they hadn't been lovers or even close, but there had been something between them. A connection that drew them together that was as undeniable. Using only touch he gathered up the letter and the envelope of pictures before standing and working his way over to where he had dropped his backpack near the stairs. Reverently he stored his find and hoisted his bag onto his shoulders. His purpose restored, Quatre stepped unblinking out of the darkness into the sun and strode through the debris without looking back.


End file.
